


In Good Hands

by FHC_Lynn



Series: Broken Windows [24]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Spark Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 00:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10910487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FHC_Lynn/pseuds/FHC_Lynn
Summary: Okay, so Smokescreen had been under a false impression. The results still astounded him.





	In Good Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gaslight Dreamer (wyntirrose)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntirrose/gifts).



> May Day gift for Gaslight-dreamer: _G1 Ratchet/Smokescreen_

The medic’s hands thing was something of a fallacy.

Oh, they were chock-full of sensors and scanners and the finest motors and strongest cables. But despite the gossip, a medic’s hands were not more sensitive to, say, someone holding them than the next mech. But that medic could tell you if that mech’s energon was flowing correctly, if his energy field were at full strength, or if his armor plating were structurally sound, etc.

Ratchet had laughed at Smokescreen’s disappointment for _days_ over that one.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the touching. Ratchet loved to hold hands or have them rubbed. He liked to be held down by them, have them sucked, or just thoroughly explored. He loved _touching_ others, any chance he got.

He especially liked that with Smokescreen. Smokescreen’s aux panels _were_ as sensitive as advertised, the low current generated every time Ratchet brought those scanners up while touching them… Yeah, Smokescreen really, really liked that, too.

Right now, Ratchet straddled Smokescreen’s waist. His hands rested over the outer casing of Smokescreen’s spark chamber, applying that generated current to the bared field and surface. He smirked down at Smokescreen as he gradually raised the current output of his hands. For his part, Smokescreen arched and cried out under Ratchet.

His aching, sensitized panels dragged across their shared berth adding a sharp urgency to his pleasure. No doubt they were tangling in the covers again, and Smokescreen didn’t care. All he cared about was the impending pleasure offered to him by those amazing hands.

The room’s dim lighting swirled into a fractal kaleidoscope when his overload washed over him in a torrent of tripped breakers and bright electrical arcs. As clichéd as the turn of phrase was, he felt himself flying in these moments, as if he had been flung among the stars to dance in their nebulae.

And the best part? Coming down from that high, only to land in Ratchet’s arms.


End file.
